


born warrior, looking for euphoria

by brophigenia



Series: kavinsky does the gangsey on fire [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: But Ronan Isn't Really Unwilling, But if a dude ejaculates on your stomach are you still a virgin?, Canon Compliant Except Kavinsky's Alive, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Joseph Kavinsky Lives, M/M, Masturbation, No Loss of Virginity, Punching as Foreplay, Ronan is still the Virgin Mary, Sort of canon compliant anyway, Unwilling Voyeurism?, Virginity, if y'know what I mean, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 07:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15310440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: The guidance counselor was always desperately telling him he needed to make goals. Have plans.“I’m gonna fuck all your friends,” Kavinsky told Ronan, who punched him again(In which a plan is formed, Ronan Lynch's virginity is preserved, Joseph Kavinsky is alive and still kind of problematic, and I give context for all this shit. Set between Blue Lily, Lily Blue and The Raven King.)





	born warrior, looking for euphoria

**Author's Note:**

> Me again. I should be doing homework right now. Not doing homework right now. Have some porn. Title from King's Dead by Our Lord and Savior Kendrick Lamar. Comment on this shit.

“I’m not touching your dick,” Ronan said. His elbows were close to his sides and his shoulders very nearly touched his ears. He looked like a wet cat, pissy and bitchy and feral. Kavinsky fucking _adored_ him.   
  
“You _aren’t_ ?” K asked, because he was sure if he cocked his hips _just so_ and made it sound like a challenge all that bullshit would fly right out the window.   
  
Ronan’s chin rose defiantly, his eyes dark. He was all skin and bone and black ink. He looked like his damn nightmare bird. It was fucking _awful_ . Kavinsky adored him.  
  
He’d always been weak (too weak) for Lynch. Had bared his fucking soul and gotten _laughed at_ when he suggested that it be just them. Just the two of them. Two gods alone in the world they’d dream for themselves, or some fucking bullshit.   
  
It would never have worked; he knew that _now,_ but still it fucking smarted whenever he thought about it. He’d been full of fury at the time. Fucking ice-veined Ronan fucking _Lynch,_ laughing when he made himself vulnerable enough to _ask._ To beg, nearly, and fuck he’d been so stupid.

He liked things as they were well enough now, though- the pack at his back and time to breathe without feeling like he was dying every second of the day. He’d never fucking admit it, but seeing from Lynch and his goody-two-shoed friends that things could be _different_ changed his mind about riding the hurricane down into the black hole that was life until he ended up in hell, where he probably belonged.

There was still Lynch, though. Lynch, who had never touched his dick even though K had been jerking it fucking raw for the last _three years_ on the regular over the thought of Lynch’s pretty mouth and ugly sneers and the curve of his ass in his tight fucking jeans. It was _ridiculous._ He wanted it to fucking _end._ He wanted to get off, and he wanted Ronan Lynch to be the one to oblige him. There were only so many times he could bend Proko over the couch in a black sweater and squint his eyes to _pretend._ Proko didn’t even fucking _look like_ Lynch, too-tall and too-blonde and too- _Proko._ And normally that was just fucking fine; he liked Proko’s skinny fucking ass, liked yanking his hair until his back bowed into a sweet _C_ curve, liked smothering himself into the crook of Proko’s neck so he could growl _mine, mine, mine, dreamboy,_ secure in his knowledge that he possessed Ilya Prokopenko because he’d dreamt him up from scratch.

It had to end, but here they were, K and Lynch, _alone,_ all alone _together,_ and here was Lynch, saying he wasn’t going to touch him.

“When’s the last time you got some, huh?” K purred, getting closer. _Seductively._ It was the kind of move that would have even Swan on his knees in a jiffy, and Swan had the most self-respect out of the whole damn pack. It took a lot to get him out of his pants. K liked that, sometimes. Liked the challenge.

He liked easy sluts better, though, which explained why Proko was his favorite dog.

“I’m saving myself for literally _anyone_ but you.” Lynch bit back in response, shoulders hunching even _further,_ and Kavinsky went practically cross-eyed at the thought, Lynch gorgeous like a goddamn nuclear explosion and _untouched._ The Virgin fucking Mary in his midst, the Holy damn Grail, _fuck._

“What if I sucked your cock first?” He heard himself bargaining, and wanted to get the fuck out right then and there except he _couldn’t._ Lynch was the only person who’d seen him like this ( _asking_ ) more than once and lived to tell the tale. It wasn’t going to end how K wanted it to. He knew it even before he asked.

But fuck, if he didn’t _try_ he may as well just be fucking dead, huh?

 _Life isn’t just sex and drugs and cars,_ Lynch had said so fucking long ago, and K had known he was right then but to think that Lynch was working with incomplete fucking data had his head spinning with the possibilities. Lynch, gasping and groaning with his head thrown back and his hand in K’s hair, K’s mouth stretched around what would no doubt be the prettiest cock in Henrietta, if it was attached to the last damn virgin in Aglionby.

“What if I punched you in the fucking mouth first?” And Lynch wasn’t wavering. He had to have the self-control of a damn monk, K marveled. He looked in the mirror every fucking morning. He knew what his mouth looked like. Primo shit, especially since Skov had made him start using lip balm last winter.

“I don’t have a gag reflex,” he mentioned, losing the plot a bit and getting even closer. He felt kind of nonsensical; probably he was just too baked to give this dire situation the solemnity it required. The same thing happened whenever his bitch of a mother dragged him to church and he always ended up snickering his way through the devotions.

Lynch swallowed, quick but thick and _there._ It was a nervous gesture, a reflex, and it made K feel like he was _flying._ “I’m not touching your cock and you aren’t touching mine,” seeing K’s grin grow, he added quickly, “ _or_ sucking it, Jesus _Christ._ ”

Hearing Lynch say _cock_ had gone very quickly to his, K realized, glancing down at the front of his sweats to see the fabric was distended by the boner he’d popped. Pavlovian or some shit. Lynch was the dog and he was the bell, or maybe it was the other way around. What the fuck ever. He was getting desperate, shifting from side to side. _Ridiculous._

“What if I touch my own cock?” He asked, calculating. He doubted it would be enough to douse the fire all down his spine that had been raging for _years_ now, but it would be a fucking start.

Lynch snorted. “Go right ahead, _K._ Be my fucking guest.” K grinned, sharp as daggers, furious and turned on and _so_ fucking fond. It was like a sugar rush or the first X tablet of the night. Heady. He shoved his own sweatpants down his hips until he could get at his cock, holding up his hand between them.

Lynch was still breathing normally but there were two twin spots of color blooming on his cheekbones. He looked like he’d been punched and then backhanded. It was a good look. A good thought.   
  
“Little help here, princess?” K sneered, nodding towards his open palm and staring at Lynch’s mouth like he needed any clarification of meaning. Ronan bared his teeth, savage. He knew he couldn’t back down, not now, not if he wanted to keep up this fucking _facade_ of disgust that K _knew_ was bullshit. He had eyes. He had eyes that could see Lynch’s eyes, and how they looked at him. Lynch may not want to play Happy Valley Family with him in the freaky fucking dream-forest, but he also wasn’t immune to K’s… _charms._

Lynch spat violently into Kavinsky’s hand, thick and viscous and _gross._ K laughed, delighted with it, a sound that turned into a gut-wrenching moan when he wrapped his saliva-soaked hand around his shaft, tight the way he liked it. Tight and slow, like he was alone, just warming up. Urgency simmered somewhere in the dip of his lower back. He was gasping for breath already, mind replaying that Lynch was _right there_ and that Lynch’s spit was on his fucking _cock,_ fucking _fuck,_ and this was what he’d fucking wanted, Lynch stiff as a fucking board in front of him and the devil behind him, egging him on as he stripped his cock faster and faster. He felt fucking _transcended._ He leaned in to kiss Lynch and missed when Lynch turned his head to avoid his mouth, ending up with his lips on Lynch’s ear and even more rage in his gut, searing hot.

“Won’t let me fucking fuck you,” he hissed, moving forward until they were pressed together from knee to neck, still jerking himself off. The head of his cock caught on Lynch’s black tee shirt, a rough drag that made everything _better,_ an edge of discomfort perfect for emphasizing the pleasure. “Won’t let anybody else fuck you, _goddamn it,_ are you fuckers all so fucking frigid?” Lynch’s answering snarl was as good as a _yes, K, we all sit around reading the Bible and not thinking about sex because Sex Is Wrong And Bad and we’re all way too fucking busy chasing down ghosts in caves, what virtuous children we are._ “You _are,”_ K barked his laughter. It was too much. It was too good. Dick fucking Gansey wasn’t fucking Parrish or Lynch or that hot townie girl they hung around with. Nobody was getting the D. It was _hilarious._ It was tragic.  
_  
_ “Jesusfuck, that’s too fucking much- I’d put you out of your fuckin’ misery if you’d only fuckin’ _ask_ -” because he was _sick_ of asking for it himself, and he found himself imagining it. Fucking the stick out of not just Lynch’s ass but the whole damn Scooby gang’s, too. Dick and Parrish and the townie underneath him, above him, however the fuck they wanted to do it as long as he got some fucking strange. He imagined it. He kept jerking at his cock. Lynch was growling and swearing at him, some pseudo-threatening bullshit. K was going to come. “I’m going to _come,_ ” he gasped, and then did, streaking Lynch’s shirt with it, pearly-white on black that had Lynch cursing violently and sending a punch square into his left cheekbone that made him stagger and did not detract from the force of his orgasm or give him amnesia about his idea.

The guidance counselor was always desperately telling him he needed to make _goals._ Have _plans._

“I’m gonna fuck all your friends,” Kavinsky told Ronan, who punched him again, and then laughed until he passed out.

**Author's Note:**

> Message me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com !!!


End file.
